Murmurs of 'Norbury'
by TemporarilyAbaft
Summary: Five times Watson said "Norbury," and one time he didn't have to.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes**: I've always wanted to do a 5 and 1 thing. I'm not sure why, I suppose it's just the set length and format that appeals to me. Here's hoping it hasn't gotten too overdone and trite!

_"Watson," said he, "if it should ever strike you that I am getting a little over-confident in my powers, or giving less pains to a case than it deserves, kindly whisper 'Norbury' in my ear, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you." _- YELL

I remembered the whole deal with 'Norbury' and, really, I've always sort of loved it. A magical catchphrase that can make Holmes step back for a moment and reconsider the way he's thinking or acting. Well. It's probably not so simple as that with Holmes being as stubborn as he is, and certainly, the impact of the word would lose meaning if Watson used it too often. So, here we have it. Just five times Watson said "Norbury," and one time he didn't have to.

* * *

"I seem to recall," Holmes began languidly one calm evening in front of the fire at Baker Street, "only entertaining one nonsensical adventure story in my youth."

Watson, who had himself been engrossed in one of the very stories Holmes tended to deprecate, glanced up at his companion curiously. "Oh?"

Holmes nodded thoughtfully. "I can assure you, my dear fellow, the lapse from stimulating reading material to it was only due to the discomfort of a severe cold."

Much used to Holmes' opinion on his choice of reading, Watson ignored the veiled slight and listened amiably.

"I was unwell enough indeed that my grandmother, visiting at the time, insisted she read to me."

Watson concealed a smile. Holmes very rarely discussed factors of his childhood, even so innocent an experience as this – a grandmother reading to a miserable and bored child.

Holmes leant back into his chair as he tried to remember the facts. "The particulars of the story are lost to my mind, of course, but I recall the dynamics of the tale centered upon a castaway scenario. There were three young men and they became the kings of their slight dominion."

"Ah. _The Coral Island_," Watson supplied fondly. He had definitely read it when he was older than Holmes, but he had enjoyed it all the same.

Thus, he was mildly bemused when Holmes shook his head quickly to disagree. "Nono, dear fellow, certainly it was _Robinson Crusoe_ by Daniel Defoe. I believe that is the name I have heard associated with it."

There was an uncomfortable pause in the conversation while Watson tried to plan what to say. "Holmes," he frowned finally, "I'm afraid you're incorrect."

The detective, so unused to the rare statement, suddenly became stony-faced.

"That is to say," Watson continued quickly, "you are correct that it was Daniel Defoe who wrote _Robinson Crusoe_. But the story which you have just described was actually written by R. M. Ballantyne and titled _The Coral Island_."

There was a thoughtful silence from Holmes. "You must be mistaken, Watson."

"Why must it be _I_ who is mistaken?"

"Because my memory is generally most infallible."

"First of all, you said yourself you do not remember the particulars, and no wonder if you were read the tale when you were only a sick child. Secondly, why should a story about _three_ castaways be entitled _Robinson Crusoe,_ which is surely a singular name?"

Holmes scoffed. "Perhaps it was the name of the first child from which the perspective was based. Besides, I remember reading somewhere that it was Daniel Defoe who wrote the first story of the castaway."

"_Robinsonade_ is the term you're looking for, Holmes, and whichever article you read seemed to be neglecting the adventures of Ulysses. Even _you_ would remember that Homer came before Defoe."

"No need to get cheeky, Watson."

"My apologies. But you are _missing the point_."

"Which is?"

"Norbury."

The word produced an interesting effect on Holmes. A response died mid-word in his throat and he looked as if he'd been lightly slapped. He slumped back in his chair and glared at the doctor resignedly. Watson crossed his arms. "You are always mocking my choice of reading material. Don't you think that, having read so many of these 'nonsensical adventure stories', I might better know something on the subject?"

Holmes frowned and looked away, defeat settling uncomfortably on his shoulders. "I could have _sworn_ that it was _Robinson Crusoe,_" he muttered as a final, although halfhearted, effort.

"They have many of the same elements, certainly," Watson agreed, calmly picking up his book once more. "You are correct in that Defoe's novel sparked many similar such stories."

After a few sulky minutes, Holmes became quite himself again upon changing the subject to a territory in which he felt more comfortable. The two passed a relaxing evening thereafter. Several days later, however, when the pair made a stop at the bookstore, Watson was puzzled to hear a muffled curse from behind him. He eased himself around the bookshelf that separated him from his friend and grinned. Holmes started guiltily, dashing the two books back onto the shelf. Seeing that he'd been caught, Holmes sighed and folded his arms grudgingly. "You were right, of course. _The Coral Island_ by R. M. Ballantyne."


	2. Chapter 2

Notes: I'd wanted to put this one up later on, but it was written before the others, so... It's being a bully and demanding I put it up now. Good luck tonight with the new Sherlock, everyone. *finds tea, blanket, and dark corner to weep in*

* * *

Ordinarily, Holmes was more than competent in a fight. As Watson had relayed in his stories with the Strand, Holmes was a proficient boxer, dexterous on his feet, and was an apt pupil of Baritsu. And so, when Holmes pulled ahead to tackle the fleeing target, Watson was sure the detective could handle himself.

However, even the best boxers occasionally get hit, and even the most careful man can fumble. Tonight was one of those strange coincidences where a simple mistake could coincide with opposing luck, and, unfortunately this evening, the victim of this strange fate would be Holmes.

Holmes had successfully pinned the man to the ground and had made to secure his arms. Slowing, confident the fight was over, Watson concentrated on getting his breathing back to normal.

It was something as simple as Holmes weakening his grip on their target's right hand for only a moment that proved the undoing. The criminal seized his one chance with vehemence. He ripped his hand out of the startled detective's grip, made a desperate grab for a discarded length of pipe in the alley, and swung it around.

Holmes only saw the attack with enough time to raise an arm. It was unfortunate that their captive was a strong man. With a tell-tale crack and howl of pain, Watson whirled around to see his companion suddenly on the defensive.

"HOLMES!"

The criminal vaulted to his feet and used his opening to swing the pipe bodily at Holmes' chest. The sickening thump shoved the detective back a step with a sharp, wheezing exhale, and a second well-aimed strike to the same spot collapsed Holmes' defense entirely and threw him against the wall.

Watson was on the criminal in another moment, an angry snarl on his lips. He wrested the pipe from the hands of the criminal in his fury and brandished both it and his gun, now drawn, at the panting assailant.

Watson heard Holmes try and blow his police whistle. He was disheartened to hear the attempt tremulous and weak. The call had the desired effect, however, and no more than a minute later, a constable appeared at the opening of the alley. Another three minutes and Lestrade had been notified and was on his way. At his first chance, Watson relinquished the criminal to an officer and turned his attentions promptly to Holmes.

The wounded detective slumped against the wall where he'd fallen and was focused on breathing carefully. He stiffened when Watson laid his hand on Holmes' shoulder. He was out of sorts indeed to not notice the doctor's approach.

"Holmes, how badly are you hurt?"

His answer was a grimace and a lie. "It is nothing, Watson, please."

Watson gently parted Holmes' folded arms. He winced immediately and Watson carefully drew his friend's right arm from his chest. He sighed through his teeth in frustration. "It's broken, Holmes. And unless I'm very much mistaken…" He lightly probed Holmes' ribs, noting the subdued groan and paling. Watson sighed. "You have two broken ribs as well, at least, and I don't like the sound of your breathing. That blackguard," he spat vehemently.

Holmes' breathing was tight and painful to hear. Watson busied himself with securing the broken arm and, when he'd finished, was relieved to hear the approach of a police vehicle.

"Inspector Lestrade, it is good to see you," Watson stood, nodded, and extended his hand to be shaken quickly.

The small man smiled grimly. "Of course, doctor. How is Mr. Holmes? My constable reported an injury."

"I'm… Perfectly fine, Inspector," Holmes insisted weakly.

They turned to regard the detective who was anything but.

He was refusing to relax and sat rigidly against the brick wall. "Easy, Holmes," Watson urged, kneeling to press a hand against his shoulder. While some of the tension was due to Holmes' injury, Watson could see in his hungry eyes - while sadly dimmed - and twitching fingers – occasionally clutching for his chest - that there was some business more to be done.

Sure enough, the detective cleared his throat with a wince. "Watson," he managed hoarsely, "there is the rest… of the gang to consider."

"Not for you, Holmes. We shall leave it up to the yard."

"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade added with a nod. He was crouching with hands on knees beside the doctor. "You get yourself patched up. My men can clean up here."

Despite the assurances and pressure from Watson's hand, Holmes struggled to get his feet under him, grunting with the effort. Watson sighed exasperatedly. "Holmes, _please,_ just _sit down_."

Holmes' efforts had him scowling and he ignored the doctor and inspector entirely. He wobbled onto his feet with a strained gasp and shoved Watson away, standing in place for a moment to brace himself through tightly controlled breaths. Even as the color drained rather completely from his face, he was able to manage a few insecure strides. "I am… _Fine_, doctor," he growled, albeit falteringly.

The whistling breaths indicated otherwise and, as Watson had expected, Holmes suddenly exhaled sharply and stumbled. He would have outright collapsed had Watson not caught him.

Lestrade turned away to demand the location of a cab for the pair from a young constable. Meanwhile, Watson eased his wheezing friend gently to the ground and removed his jacket to pillow under the detective's head. Holmes' eyes were squeezed tight. After a moment, he opened them to stare at his friend. They spoke volumes of his pained defeat.

"Norbury, old fellow," Watson whispered sadly, patting his shoulder consolingly. Amidst the quivering breaths came as deep a sigh as might be expected given his injury. Watson grasped Holmes' hand who, in response, nodded tiredly his understanding. Finally, he let himself relax, even if it was only a little.


	3. Chapter 3

It was clear from the look on Holmes' face that his patience was dwindling. The young chap that sat dully in the seat before the detective seemed incapable of arriving to his point. _Any_ point, really, and he had been trying for the past ten minutes to reach one. Watson stilled a groan as he saw the tension rise in his friend's shoulders.

"Mr. Owen," he interrupted a third time with a stiff and unpleasantly fake smile, "if I might just redirect the conversation for a moment; upon entering this evening and, furthermore, disturbing a meal to which the doctor and I had only just sat down to enjoy, you had announced that you knew something about the Orlando business. May we please begin again there? For while I _do_ find the anecdote of your workplace most…. _intriguing_, I fail to see that it has absolutely anything to bear on the matter at hand."

The young gentleman nodded with wide eyes. "Oh, right. Sorry. My mind gets a bit waylaid at the best of times. Heh! Tha's what me wife's always telling me."

There was a momentary silence as if Owen had forgotten what to do next. Watson prompted gently, "… The Orlando business?"

"Rightright, right! Well, like I said, I know something about it." He grinned toothily in the direction of the detective, who was beginning to fail at hiding his frustrated disgust. "The papers have been printin' a bunch bout it, too, haven't they?"

Another silence stretched laboriously. Holmes spat an impatient reply when it became obvious that Owen wasn't going to continue. "Isn't that question rhetorical? Yes. Yes they have printed rather a lot about the jewel heist. You were _saying_?"

"Well. I don't read the paper so often. I happened to pick me up one a couple days ago cause I had the extra pay – that business with my work I was telling you about, after Johnny had to—"

"Yes, I understand, _please continue_."

If Mr. Owen noticed the rancor in Holmes' voice, he displayed no anxiety for it. Watson, on the other hand, was sinking further into his armchair in response to his friend's testy tone.

"Funny paper I read, too, with lots of extra columns and such for blokes to write in and say stuff if they wanted."

"… That is generally how a newspaper _operates,_ Mr. Owen."

"Oh, really? Like I said, I don't get the chance to read it so often, haha! Anyways, I went home with the thing and happened to read that article."

"I had surmised you might have given the evidence before me."

"_Holmes_," Watson hissed quietly.

"You know, o' course Mr. Holmes, that there wasn't any clues to be found at the place. Right clean job they did, getting them jewels." Mr. Owen's face lit up with a new train of thought, and Holmes and Watson sank with impatient sighs when he continued excitedly, "Gosh! How much do you think those jewels were worth? I mean, _really_?"

Holmes stood abruptly, his patience finally at its end. While he did not necessarily intend it as such, his current agitation was such that he towered over their visitor like an intimidating dark spirit. "Mr. Owen, if you do not cease to prevaricate on the matter at hand I shall be forced to terminate this session under the risk that your _evidence_, if even you have such, might significantly impact the forward progression of my investigations, which I am coming to seriously doubt."

In a dumbfounding lack of perception, Mr. Owen did not recognize the tension and merely looked confused. After a moment of thoughtful silence, he shook his head and relied apologetically, "I didn't understand a thing you just said there."

"Holmes!"

Watson quickly approached his friend's side to grip the fuming detective's arm, which had begun to rise in the purpose of seizing their informant's lapels and shaking them. "A moment, Mr. Owen," he interceded quickly.

Watson all but dragged his irate companion to the landing outside the sitting room and shut the door. Holmes glowered at him and hissed furiously, "That…._man_ has wasted our time! He is a useless bungler and most incapable of observing whether his _jacket is properly buttoned –_ which, if you noticed, _is sadly not even an exaggeration -_ much less discern an element of the Owen case that could possibly be of any use to my investigations!"

Watson nodded sympathetically, "Yes, Holmes, I know—"

"I am going to throw him out this very instant. The very _nerve_ of him to come here, _unannounced—"_

"Holmes-"

"—with a false declaration of intelligence on the very subject that has been plaguing me this week –"

"Holmes!"

"—deserves no less than that which I have prescribed, and perhaps worse—"

Watson seized his friend's shoulders and jerked them with enough force to cause Holmes to momentarily cease his belligerent rant in a shocked stutter. "HOLMES."

The detective roughly brushed Watson's arms from his shoulders. "_What?_" he demanded savagely.

"Norbury."

While Holmes still stood seething and glaring, there passed a momentary flicker of confusion through his eyes. "What?"

"Holmes, you are allowing your impatience to get in the way of the case."

"Watson," he huffed testily, "I fail to see how that _cretin _could possibly have any legitimate bearing on the case."

"That's exactly what I mean. Your impatience and frustrations have led you to discount and underestimate the bloke in the sitting room."

Some of the tension leaked grudgingly from Holmes' bearing. Watson, of course, had hit upon the truth. After a moment, Holmes needled quietly, "Bloke? Don't you mean 'gentleman'?"

Watson stared and replied seriously, "Well, I could hardly call him such, Holmes."

The smallest of smiles ghosted across Holmes' lips and he stared at the ground in thought. Finally, he straightened himself stiffly, although with significantly less ire than had controlled his demeanor a moment previously. "Perhaps," he sighed softly, "you are right, dear fellow."

The doctor smiled briefly. "It might lead to naught, but it would be a shame to allow evidence to slip past you."

Holmes sighed, nodded, and readjusted his waistcoat and jacket. After another moment's silent preparation, he reentered the sitting room with his calm façade once more adequately in place. Watson followed and sat in his customary spot, his journal in hand once more.

"I apologize for the interruption, Mr. Owen," Holmes smiled tightly. "Pray, enlighten me as to the information you have gleaned from the newspaper."

Mr. Owen nodded happily, none the wiser for the scene he'd caused. "Of course, Mr. Holmes. Well, you see, it wasn't so much the newspaper that gave me the clue. It just sort of told me that there was a clue there to be found."

Unsure of what precisely to make of the baffling statement, Holmes merely nodded encouragingly.

"Well, I gets to work the next day and had already sort of forgotten what was in the paper, if I'm going to be honest. That sort of business don't concern me, not when I gots honest work to keep me occupied. Well, my boss –he's the one I was telling you about, the blighter. Don't much appreciate his attitude but, hey, he's the one what pays me, so I suppose I should—"

"Mr. Owen," Watson reminded gently.

"Oh, yup, getting' off topic I was. Anyways, Old Man Wilkes – thas what we call him, the boss – comes up to me and says, 'Harry, I wants to see you in my office.' I says to myself, 'Well damn, that'll be about that piece I broke the other day.' So, I goes in there and he starts berating me, the usual stuff. 'What good are you,' and 'I could get me any other man to do the job,' 'you're replaceable,' you know the deal. I'd heard it all before so I just stood there staring around, weren't really listening. And that's when suddenly I saw it."

Mr. Owen paused again for reasons unknown. Holmes prompted him to continue with a sigh that indicated he did not expect much from the reply. "Please, do go on Mr. Owen."

The chap frowned. "Oh. Sorry. I just figured you bein' so clever and all you would already know what I was about to say next."

Holmes lifted an eyebrow wearily and gave a half-hearted chuckle. "I am not a mind reader, Mr. Owen."

The man guffawed and shrugged. "Suppose your right. Well I'll tells ya, it was the jewels."

He sat smiling dumbly while Holmes and Watson stared.

"The what?" Holmes demanded ineloquently.

"The jewels."

Holmes and Watson exchanged a flummoxed glance. "There were just… out in the open?" Watson inquired weakly.

"Oh, no, not quite. I mean, you could tell Old Man Wilkes had tried to stow 'em away or summat and had just , you know, not quite done it right. But the cabinet where he keeps his files. The door was open a wee bit, and I could see a glint reflectin' off the window. Having nothing else to look at, I just sort of stared the reflection down and said to meself, 'Oh, would you look at that? That's a necklace. And it fits the description of one of the Orlando jewels, down to that octagonal opal, in that article I was readin last night.' Right curious coincidence, ain't it Mr. Holmes?"

The detective in question was quite unable to respond. Watson glanced over to see his companion white faced and, an expression rarely graced upon the Holmes' features, utterly dumbfounded.

A hasty investigation at Harry Owen's workplace proved that, yes, Eustace Wilkes had been involved in the clean and well-done theft of the Orlando family's fortune. It was a case that was solved backwards, the solution of which came from the idle observations of one of London's dullest individuals, and would have been overlooked entirely were it not for a timely intervention of patience.


	4. Chapter 4

Note: I had so much fun needling Holmes that I almost forgot there was a plot to finish up.

* * *

Watson was _definitely_ limping now.

His arm in Holmes', Watson glanced over at his companion. The detective's face was cloudy with frustration, but the eager spark of the chase still lit upon his eyes.

They had been walking as such, arm in arm, after the _first_ hour of their journey had passeed. When Holmes had appeared in the sitting room, smirking like a cat who'd caught the canary, insisting that "with one little walk, my dear Watson, I'll have acquired the final clue to the McMillian affair," Watson had not expected a journey lasting more than half an hour or more.

He sighed a trifle grumpily, although if Holmes noticed this pseudo-verbalized irritation, he made no acknowledgement.

It was unlike Holmes to ignore the physical complaints of his friend. Whenever they were out walking, Holmes tended to pattern his pace to Watson's, something which, at minor risk to his pride, the doctor ultimately appreciated.

Now with that consideration neglected, Watson found himself a trifle hurt – both literally and figuratively.

When a sharp pain punctuated his step, Watson finally let vent to a degree of his irritation. "Holmes, for heaven's sake, _what are we doing_?"

The detective said nothing and continued to glower at the street in front of him with a trace of desperation.

Grinding his teeth, Watson tried again. "Holmes. You said back in Baker Street that this… _hike_ would lead you to your final clue. It has been _two and a half hours _since that assured declaration."

Holmes' faced screwed up further with disgust and he huffed an exasperated sigh. "I know, Watson."

After another silence, Watson concluded that Holmes was not going to be forthcoming with answers. _Fine, so be it_, he thought with a mental roll of his eyes. He marshaled the thoughts and observations he'd made on the lengthy walk and attempted to put them together.

"We are following something," he tried shortly, his irritation no secret in his voice now.

Holmes nodded tersely.

"It is not a man, for we would be taking further care to disguise ourselves if we were following someone."

Holmes said nothing, which seemed to indicate the affirmative.

Watson glanced around again. The locale was becoming seedy. Their path had wandered slightly, taking them to a commercial district and back again, down a street notable for several pubs, and now in their current direction: emerging from a vaguely residential area to a wider market street.

Obviously Holmes was not actually a bloodhound following the scent with his nose. He was also not following a path with a set destination in his mind, for the expression he'd worn for the past half hour indicated a trace of confusion and angry desperation.

That seemed to indicate makers hidden in plain sight. He had no idea of their nature, however.

"We are following a series of markers, although what they could possibly be I've no earthly idea," Watson declared.

"The Irregulars," Holmes supplied shortly.

"You mean to say…"

"I had them follow McMillian and make note of his passage with a prearranged set of signals." Watson had apparently hit upon enough of the truth to loosen the detective's tongue. Holmes grimaced and glanced at Watson a trifle apologetically. "I… was not anticipating McMillian's circuitous and lengthy route."

Watson considered this information quietly as they marched onward. "If we are following a set of clues," he ventured slowly, "then why could we not simply take a break? Continue the chase after we've rested a bit?"

"Because I'm afraid we are engaged on exactly that, Watson – a chase. Wiggins alerted me when McMillian had been spotted leaving his hiding place. I had hoped we would catch up with him before he reached his destination."

"Why didn't you just tell me about all of this?"

When there was no answer, Watson looked at his friend. Was that a trace of embarrassment on Holmes' cheeks? Watson frowned at the uncomfortable detective. Finally it dawned on him, and he unsuccessfully stifled a grin. "… You were trying to appear clever, weren't you." It was not a question.

"_Watson._"

"That's it, isn't it?" Holmes' shoulders shuffled uneasily, and Watson chuckled. "You do it rather a lot, old boy."

"I do not!"

"Oh, yes you do. You leave information out, become deliberately silent about what it is you're doing so that it can all come as a clever surprise later."

Holmes' uncomfortable sigh affirmed Watson's observations. Finding an innocent opportunity to get back at his friend for the past two and a half hours, Watson continued mercilessly. "Except this time, it went wrong because it took _longer _than you were anticipating to reach the conclusion of the chase."

"Do shut up, Watson."

Watson giggled childishly to himself. He tightened his grip on his friend's arm, working past the increasing limp in his gait. "Do you think it's too much further to McMillian?"

Grateful for the shift in conversation, Holmes shook his head. "Nearly three hours, Watson. If even _I_ am beginning to feel the strain, surely a clerk like McMillian is feeling it as well."

"You don't suppose he suspects being followed?"

"I cannot see how he would have discovered it, but I will grant that his—Watson, there."

He pointed suddenly at a man standing across the street. He had stopped, it seemed, to read a sign on the side of a house. Glancing around, Watson noticed a disreputable looking boy sinking back into the shadows on his left. One of the Irregulars, no doubt.

Holmes was grinning, the joy of the chase lending him energy once more. "There he is," he murmured.

The two disengaged their arms and began to approach the gentleman in question.

Unfortunately, something apparently gave the two men away. McMillian stiffened and whirled around to stare in horror at Holmes. All three men stopped short at his discovery, and before anything more could be done, McMillian bolted down the street.

Holmes was after him in an instant. Watson kept up the best that he was able, but the walk had taken its toll on his leg.

One street, two streets, an alley, three streets. Watson followed breathlessly after the flurry of black coat and frock in front of him.

They had reemerged onto a quieter street. Their quarry took off across it and turned into another alley with nary a second glance.

Watching Holmes pelt single-minded after their man, Watson made a mental connection and felt a twinge of panic. "HOLMES!" he called out in warning. "HOLMES, NORBURY!"

The detective pulled up short, only a few feet from the alleyway McMillian had scampered into, and glanced at Watson in distracted confusion. As Watson neared, Holmes turned back around on the defensive, eyes wide.

Just in time to meet the man with the knife.

Holmes had ample enough warning to block his assailant's overhanded thrust with his arm. Using his opening, Holmes punched with his left fist, the man's head jerking back with the impact.

Watson had caught up with enough time to take on the second man who'd emerged from the alley.

* * *

Gregson regarded the two men sitting before him on the curb with a raised eyebrow. While Holmes and Watson appeared thoroughly exhausted, they were not terribly injured. The doctor sported a black eye, and Holmes held a handkerchief to one of the bleeding nicks on his arm, but, given the situation they'd apparently ran headlong into, they were lucky.

"Well, we have the story from you two, and McMillian's in custody. I daresay you're free to go home. Be sure to get yourselves looked at," he added, wincing at the doctor's darkened eye. That was bound to be sore tomorrow.

Holmes and Watson stood slowly, grimacing as their legs reminded them of their unkind treatment this afternoon. After a few murmured formalities with the Inspector, the two made their way for the main street in hopes of finding a cab.

"It seems," Holmes began, breaking their weary silence, "I must thank you, Watson."

Watson smiled and patted his friend's shoulder. "Not a problem, old boy."


	5. Chapter 5

_Woof, _this is a hefty one; the boys just got away from me. But, in a way, this is sort of the finale, so it's alright. Only one more left, and it will likely be short.

Also, there will never be a day that I don't seize an opportunity to make _exceptionally geeky references_. When you see it: _please stop looking at me like that_, for I regret nothing.

Cheers, everyone (and shout-out to AppleCheeks42)!

* * *

Watson refrained from straitening his collar, mindful of the detective's advice several hours previously.

"You have numerous tells, my friend," Holmes had instructed apologetically. "When we have played cards I have noted your tendency to fidget with your tie or absently touch your mustache. You must make all effort to remain impassive this evening if you are to aid me."

The pair were seated around a table with three other gentleman at a high-class club, the invitations for which Watson could only assume had been obtained through some favor to Holmes, or perhaps even from his brother Mycroft. The doctor could not help marveling that it was certainly the classiest undercover mission Holmes and he had ever engaged upon. Ordinarily, Holmes would seek information in the guise of one seedy character or other, complete with dirty jacket, grimy beard, and the stench to tie it all together. Tonight, however, he was dressed as nicely as Watson had ever seen him. He'd exchanged his normal tie for a stylish cravat, had allowed his hair to fall more loosely than its normal slicked confine, and had even donned a fake pair of spectacles to complete his costume. He appeared an academic young man with the slightest flair for fashion.

Watson felt like he looked rather plain and dull in comparison.

Holmes had been quite specific as to how Watson would dress, act and speak; indeed, he'd seen fit to outline even the simplest detail to such a degree that Watson found himself a trifle offended.

It was when the detective had sighed and distractedly suggested Watson not speak at all that the doctor voiced his protest with an indignantly scoffed, "honestly, Holmes!"

Holmes had waved his hand dismissively. "Now now, Watson, I mean it as no personal offense. It is simply imperative that I have control over as many variables tonight as possible if we are to succeed. While I trust your discretion, I cannot be guaranteed that you will not let slip something that will compromise our position."

Watson had stared dumbfounded at that. "… Holmes, that is _precisely_ 'not trusting my discretion'!"

Nevertheless, Watson understood what the detective meant; and so here he sat at a card table as Cedric Hardwicke, a remarkably dull and suspiciously reticent fellow involved in investment, beside William Huggins, a well-to-do young scholar who was heavily informed on the subject of 18th century French paintings.

Holmes – or rather, Huggins - was peering at the cards in his hand, trying to decide his next move. While Watson recognized that his attention was actually on how to draw further information from their companions, he appeared completely engrossed in the game.

One of the gentlemen they were playing with, an art dealer by the name of Percy Carver, chuckled around his cigar. "What's the matter, my dear boy? Can't you spot that old Jack's bluffing?"

The man sitting next to him, a fellow investor who went colloquially by 'Jack', struck his friend's arm. "Percy, don't give it away to the lad, for heaven's sake!" He folded his arms with a grin. "I need to win back my losses _somehow_."

Holmes smiled cockily as our third companion, Curtis Rowntree, guffawed. "I daresay our young companion is cleverer than he led us to believe when we arranged this meeting, eh boys?" Rowntree peered at Watson. "Why don't you tell your friend there to go easy?"

Watson laughed along with the three men and risked an innocuous response. "I daresay I couldn't if I tried."

Holmes' grin became even larger, and he took only a moment longer to decisively lay several coins into the pot. He then reclined into his chair with a sigh. "I only came here to talk business, as you well know. Taking your money has been nothing more than a pleasant gain on the side."

Rowntree and Carver chuckled and Jack scowled, although it was without much heat. Indeed, the game had been rather friendly the whole night. Carver took a long draw from his cigar. "I must admit, Huggins, I was relieved to hear your name come up in conversation this afternoon. When I discovered those splendid oil landscapes a week ago, I was absolutely certain I'd discovered the real thing."

Holmes nodded emphatically, taking a moment to push his spectacles further up his nose. Watson couldn't help but silently marvel for perhaps the fifth time that evening the change in his friend's demeanor. He replied, smiling animatedly. "From what you have told me, Mr. Carver, there's a good chance they may be! Of course, it will be impossible to tell without observing them myself…" He sighed thoughtfully. "Where, again, did you say you'd discovered them?"

Watson watched the turns progress, willing himself to appear nonchalant. When Holmes had drilled him hours ago on the need for impassivity, he'd felt Holmes was being ridiculously particular. Now, however, he found himself clinging to Holmes' advice. It was not the first time he'd accompanied Holmes on missions such as these before, but he had never quite gotten used to the nerves that went with them. He would feel calmer if he knew precisely what information Holmes was trying to get at.

Carver took a moment to reply, using his turn as a way to consider how he should respond. "Well, you'll understand that I cannot go into too many specifics." He picked up a few coins thoughtfully and peered at Holmes. "We all have our methods, something I'm sure your investor friend here can understand."

Watson smiled quickly at the mention of his persona, but he feared it lacked sincerity.

Holmes, of course, responded neatly. "I see your point, Mr. Carver. However;" and here he leaned forward with a raised eyebrow, his face open and honest, "if I had some sense as to your collection's origin, I would be better able to determine if it was genuine."

Watson played his turn slowly and unremarkably, laying a modest couple of coins at the center of the table. His attention was on the conversation.

Jack sat back in his seat with a sigh. "Perhaps I should field this one, Percy. After all, it was I who discovered them. Mr. Huggins, without revealing too much, I can at least say that they came from a small estate from the north of Devon."

Rowntree nodded, intercepting the discussion. "On behalf of Mr. Carver, I visited the owner in question to discuss purchasing the works. The gentleman was initially wary to part with the pieces, but, in the end, we were able to work out a compromise."

"It was a bit of a gamble, I'll admit," Carver sighed. "But I have a good deal of faith that these landscapes are the real-deal."

There was something off about their story, but Watson could not immediately lay his finger on it. Holmes, however, identified it a moment later.

The detective was frowning, tapping his cards thoughtfully against the table. "It is brave indeed that you bought the pieces before knowing their true worth. Why did you not send for an expert before buying them? It would have been the process of a week or so, at most, for a scholar to determine their value."

There was the briefest of silences before Rowntree chuckled. "See, this young pup has better business sense than you, Percy."

A ring of laughter was shared by the table, but Watson sensed a degree of discomfort in the atmosphere. Holmes, he knew, had also picked up on the hesitation.

Carver threw his hands up in a show of embarrassment, appearing none the wiser for the tension. "I'll admit! It wasn't the best decision I've ever made. But I was just so _sure_ about them! You'll see, Mr. Huggins, they are truly spectacular pieces!"

Carver's eyes sparkled expectantly, and Watson realized that he was goading Holmes to respond. He was beginning to get a sense of what was going on here. In a moment of intuition, he recalled something peculiar that had happened at Baker Street two weeks ago.

Holmes had received a letter from Mycroft sometime in the morning. He'd opened it with a snort and perused the contents disinterestedly over coffee. Upon finishing the letter, however, he had grown thoughtful and carefully folded it away into his dressing gown pocket. When Watson questioned him about it, Holmes had simply smiled and reassured, "nothing of import, dear fellow."

Watson had only been included on the present case two days ago. Holmes had returned to Baker Street from some errand or other and, after standing thoughtfully before the fire for several minutes, asked enigmatically, "How is your card game, Watson?"

He'd given very few specifics on the matter and had only insisted that he could not gather information this evening without the aid of a compatriot. Watson was unsure how much he'd actually helped, but he trusted Holmes knew what he was talking about.

Now, Watson began to wonder if the matter Mycroft had brought before Holmes two weeks ago and the present case were linked. He wished he had more to go on. Were they dealing with art thieves? Had there been a murder in an aristocrat's house in Devon? Certainly, the doctor was beginning to recognize something nefarious about these men they'd been playing with for the last few hours.

Watson was torn from his rapid thoughts by Holmes' chuckling. "Mr. Carver, I am sure your paintings are _quite_ remarkable." Watson glanced at his friend and spied the smug set of his features. He hoped he was the only one that could recognize it. Holmes grinned winningly and continued. "I am sure the depiction of lighting is superb?"

Rowntree nodded gleefully. "Oh, let me tell you. They're absolutely fine."

"And the brush strokes, most elegant?"

Jack chuckled. "I'm not much of an artist, Mr. Huggins, my business is money; but even _I_ can't help but notice their quality. Just the way they arc and stretch across the canvas!" He gestured with a hand and sighed dramatically. "They are simply most brilliant."

"And the quality of the paint?"

Carver grinned. "Stunning. The artist used a glaze, I believe, and the colors appear to have a luminosity of their own."

"Ah, so they shine! Almost like… new?"

Holmes' gentle statement created an unexpectedly awkward silence. Watson glanced from Holmes' gloating expression to the blank faces of their companions; he chose, then, the cards in his hands as the safest place to stare. Something had just transpired, and he knew not what.

It was Jack that smoothed the silence with a laugh. "Listen to this boy go on! When we sell the pieces to the museums, we should have _him _do the selling! Heavens, man, you haven't even _seen _the things and you make them sound remarkable!"

His companions guffawed loudly and Holmes threw his head back with his own bark of laughter. Watson forced a laugh, trying his hardest to make the action seem genuine. Rowntree wiped an eye, then, and called for a steward to "bring drinks for our companions, there's a lad."

Carver had shifted the subject to arranging a date for Holmes – Huggins – to inspect the paintings, but Watson's attention was drawn to the door that was situated nearly behind the detective. There was no way he could have noticed; it was quietly drawn closed before Watson's eyes.

It took all of the doctor's self-control not to stiffen reflexively in his seat. He glanced anxiously at Holmes, but groaned inwardly to see the detective's attention completely on the three men before him.

"Once you've determined the legitimacy of the paintings," Carver was saying, "Jack here can focus on advertising them to the museums. I'm sure they could find a home in London. All in the name of Empire, eh Jack?"

The card game, which Watson had nearly forgotten about, had gotten around to the referred gentleman. Watson, who was suddenly on edge, peered at Jack while he selected the coins for his bet. His movement jostled his jacket and it opened fractionally. There was a telling glint of silver before the coat settled once more. These men were armed.

As the turn moved to the babbling Carver, Watson stifled a cough behind his hand, leaning slightly to Holmes. "_Norbury,_" he tried hoarsely.

To Watson's chagrin, Holmes did not seem to have noticed.

He tried again, but with even less luck. The hand turned to him, and Watson looked up to notice Jack frowning at him. He inquired lightly over the conversation, "Mr. Hardwicke? Is everything all right?"

No, it damn well wasn't. Watson smiled brightly all the same, although he feared the action looked a bit crazed.

Holmes finally noticed his companion's anxiety and stared at him intensely, ignoring whatever Rowntree was saying to Carver. "Of course, everything's fine," Watson replied. He turned his rigid grin to Holmes, hoping with everything that he was worth that the detective would realize the source of his agitation.

He flicked his gaze pointedly over to Jack and back again, wincing at how obvious this clue was. Holmes however, only wrinkled an eyebrow in confusion.

Of all the times for the detective to be clueless, Watson lamented, it _had_ to be now!

The game proceeding steadily, Watson noted Jack's and Rowntree's eyes on him. He was unable to resist grabbing for his collar. Holmes, perhaps attributing Watson's curious behavior on nerves, returned his attention to Carver who was still speaking.

"And where, Mr. Huggins, do you suppose would be the best place to meet and examine the paintings?"

Holmes opened his mouth to respond, but Watson seized his chance. In his desperation, he almost shouted, "_Norbury_!"

All eyes turned towards him, and Watson laughed tremulously. Rowntree, Jack, and Carver all appeared confused and a bit shocked by 'Mr. Hardwicke's' sudden exclamation. Holmes, on the other hand, was staring tight lipped and alert, one hand unknowingly clenched on the table before him.

"Norbury," Watson said again, straitening his collar needlessly a second time. "It would be a fantastic place to, ahm. See to the… Um. _Denouement. _Of the thing."

Jack's hand was imperceptibly reaching for his jacket. Holmes was scanning their companions intensely while Watson stuttered doggedly on. Now that he'd started talking, he found he couldn't stop.

"It would be. _Dangerous_, I suppose. To bring the paintings. Straight to, uh. London. They'd risk getting _destroyed_ along the way." Watson's gaze flickered from Carver's confused stare to Rowntree's face, which had just washed suspiciously blank. His hand was reaching for his pocket now as well.

Holmes had carefully laid his cards on the table, freeing his hands and watching Watson's reactions. Helplessly, the doctor continued uselessly on. "We… Wouldn't want that… Now… Would we?"

He'd chuckled then, but no one joined him. He smiled wanly at Holmes. "Huggins, old boy?"

Holmes nodded faintly.

"Duck."

All of his anxiety in the past few hours focused in this one moment and Watson seized the edge of the table forcefully to flip it upwards. Jack had been quick on the draw, however, and had whipped out his revolver before Watson could quite complete the action. Jack fired just a moment before the table struck his arm in its tumbling flight.

Luckily, Holmes had ducked as instructed. Otherwise, the bullet would have gone straight through his head.

Rowntree, who had been seated across from Watson, was buried under a flurry or cards, coins, and the table itself. Watson seized his chance to tackle Jack. The room was not terribly large, and so they struck their shoulders against the western wall with their momentum.

Holmes had recovered quickly and yanked the table from its position atop Rowntree, throwing it instead at Carver who'd reached for a revolver of his own. Holmes then wrestled with Rowntree and managed to yank the small gun from his hands.

Watson dealt a strong punch to Jack's head, hoping to disorientate him long enough to wrest control of Jack's gun. He was barely holding it off with his left hand and could do little more than scrabble at Jack's throat while he tried to shove Watson's head away.

There was a gunshot and yelp, followed by the clatter of a gun on the floor. Watson risked a glance to see Holmes bending to collect Carver's revolver. Carver himself had collapsed insensate, with a grazing wound to the head, on top of the upturned table. Watson shouted a desperate warning when he saw Rowntree aiming a tackle for Holmes' legs, but it came a moment too late.

The detective toppled and dropped one of the revolvers when he struck his head against the wall. Watson's attention was wrenched back to his own fight when Jack tried a new tactic and punched Watson's arm, the one he'd been using to hold the deadly barrel away from himself.

That arm had been the source of his balance and, without it, he collapsed against Jack. He rolled himself desperately off of the villain and to the left, trying to catch sight of Jack's – now freed – revolver.

Watson drew his knees to his chest and kicked blindly in Jack's direction. He got lucky and his left foot struck the hand that was in the process of aiming. The gun flew from the villain's hands and struck the wall beside him. Watson lunged over his gasping assailant to grab for it.

He managed to seize it, but Watson received an elbow dug viciously between his shoulder blades for the effort. He grunted and managed to roll away again.

Holmes had become dazed after his head's encounter with the wall and could do nothing more than grunt and stagger to his knees. Rowntree stood with a sneer plastered on his face, breathing heavily, and turned his revolver on the helpless detective.

With little option available, Watson aimed quickly and fired.

Rowntree stood dumbly for a moment as the bullet struck true. He then collapsed into a limp pile, never to move again.

Watson was left to stare in dull horror before Holmes cried out, shaking him from his trance. The detective pointed his remaining gun hastily – _vaguely_ – behind Watson.

The doctor wasn't sure if Jack behind him was the clearer danger, or if it was Holmes' concussed aim. He decided neither were impeccable options and in a second had plastered himself against the wall.

The glass ashtray, which had not shattered in its initial fall from the table, now struck the place Watson's head had been moments prior in a spray of shards. Jack lay in a heap above it, obviously surprised to see his weapon had missed the doctor's head by more than a few inches.

"That's quite enough," Holmes shouted sharply. "Remain still!" The detective was staring wide eyed at their remaining assailant, his gun wavering unsteadily.

Watson dragged himself quickly to his feet and quietly coaxed the detective to relinquish the revolver. Holmes acquiesced and slumped against the wall, his breaths heaving.

They all remained silent for several seconds while they slowly realized it, at last, was all over.

"So," Watson said finally. "What were we dealing with, exactly?" His tone was light, conversational, and completely at odds to the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

Holmes wiped a shaking hand across a gash on his forehead, swiping blood away from his eyes in the process. His reply was slurred. "They sell fake art," he explained dumbly and simply.

Watson nodded a bit excessively, turning his gaze from Jack, who had sat back in a clear show of submission, to the dead man on his left and the unconscious Percy Carver lying on the table. "Mycroft?" he tried curiously.

Holmes nodded again and replied succinctly, "Yes."

Watson drew his handkerchief from his pocket and held it out for Holmes. The detective graciously accepted it and removed his glasses, which had been rendered permanently ineffectual when the rims were bent out of shape during the scuffle.

"They discovered that I was on to them: that comment about new paint. They knew they'd be caught. Their cover story about Devon, of course, was a lie." Holmes gestured vaguely at the door, which he had only noticed was closed at the beginning of their fight. "The club will likely be completely empty."

Watson grunted in acknowledgement and finished his train of thought. "Yes, the steward and the order for drinks. It was some prearranged signal, then, to clear the club of witnesses?"

Holmes hummed an affirmative and winced at the effect it had on his head.

"I suppose we'll need to send for Lestrade and explain this mess," Watson suggested with a bemused rise of his eyebrows.

Again, Holmes hummed, but more carefully than before.

A couple of seconds passed silently before Holmes gave a hoarse chuckle.

"What is it, old boy?" Watson queried faintly.

"It's a pity, is all. I was about to win that card game."

Watson giggled weakly, and Holmes' snickering escaped him in no more than a few breathless hisses. A quieter part of Watson's mind diagnosed their symptoms as that of mild shock. He was hard pressed, however, not to join him.


End file.
